Robert Jordan - The Eye of the World

Nynaeve turned her head then, and looked at her over one shoulder. It was a level look, the sort Egwene had been trying on Kenley. She did not have to hop for Nynaeve the way she would for the Wisdom. Nynaeve was just trying to make up for Mistress Barran doubting her work. Egwene thought about telling her that Mistress Ayellin wanted to talk to her about a pie. Studying Nynaeve’s face, she decided that might not be a good notion. Anyway, she had been doing what she had vowed not to, slacking off, standing around watching Nynaeve and the Wisdom. Making as much of a curtsey as she could while holding her bucket-to the Wisdom, not Nynaeve-she turned away. She was not hopping, and

not because Nynaeve looked at her. Certainly not. And not hurrying, either. Just walking--quickly--to get back to her work.

Still, she walked quickly enough that before she realized it, she was back among the tables where the women were working wool. And face to face across one of the tables with her sister Elisa.

Elisa was folding fleece for baling, and making a bad job of it. She seemed distracted, barely even noticing Egwene, and Egwene knew why. Elisa was eighteen, but her waist-length hair was still tied with a blue kerchief. Not that was she was thinking about getting married-most girls waited at least a few years-but she was a year older than Nynaeve. Elisa often worried aloud about why the Women’s Circle still thought she was too young. It was hard not to feel sympathy. Especially since Egwene had been thinking about Elisa’s predicament for weeks, now. Well, not about Elisa’s problem, exactly, but it had set her thinking.

Off to one side of the tables, Calle Coplin was talking with some young men from the farms, giggling and twisting her skirts. She was always talking to some man or other, but she was supposed to be folding fleece. That was not why she caught Egwene’s eye, though.

“Elisa, you shouldn’t worry so,” she said gently. “Maybe Berowyn and Alene got their hair braided at sixteen … ” Most girls did, she thought. She was not all sympathy. Elisa had a habit of offering sayings. “The hour wasted won’t be found again,” or “A smile makes the work lighter,” till your teeth started to ache from them. Egwene knew for a fact that a smile would not make her bucket lighter by one dipper-full. “ … but Calle’s twenty, with her nameday coming in a few months now. Her hair’s not braided, and you don’t see her moping.”

Elisa’s hands went still on the fleece on the table in front of her. For some reason, the women on either side of her put their hands over their mouths, trying to hide laughter. For some reason, Elisa’s face turned bright red. Very bright red.

“Children should not … ” Elisa spluttered. Her face might be burning like the sun, but for all her spluttering her voice was cold as mid-winter snow. “A child who talks when … Children who Jillie Lewin, a year younger than Elisa and her black hair in a thick braid that hung below her waist, sank to her knees, she was laughing into her hand so hard. “Go away, child!” Elisa snapped. “Grownups are tying to work here!”

With an indignant glare, Egwene turned and stalked away from the folding tables, the bucket thumping her leg at every step. Try to help someone, try to buck up her spirits, and see what you got? I should have told her she isn’t a grownup, she thought fiercely. Not until the Circle lets her braid her hair, she isn’t. That’s what I should have said.

The fierce mood stayed with her until her bucket was empty again, and when she filled it once more, she squared her shoulders. If you were going to do a thing, then you had to do it. Heading straight for the sheep-pens, she walked as fast as she could and ignored anyone who motioned for water. It was not slacking off. The boys would need water, too.

At the pens, the dozen or so boys waiting to move sheep gave her surprised looks when she offered the dipper, and some said they could get water when they went to the river, but she kept on. And she always asked the same question. “Have you seen Perrin? Or Mat? Where can I find them?”

Some told her Perrin and Mat were herding sheep to the river, and others that they had seen the pair of them watching sheep that had already been shorn, but she did not mean to go chasing off just to find them already gone. Finally, a big-eyed boy named Wil al’Seen, from one of the farms south of Emond’s Field, gave her a suspicious look and said, “Why do you want them?” Some girls said Wil was pretty, but Egwene thought his ears looked funny.

She started to give him a level look, then thought better of it. I … need to ask them something,” she said. It was only a small he. She really did hope one of them would lead her to some answers. He said nothing for a long time, studying her, and she waited. Patience is always repaid, Elisa often said. Too often. She wished she could forget Elisa’s sayings. She tried to forget. But kicking Wil’s shins would not get what she wanted from him. Even if he did deserve it.

“They’re over behind that far pen,” he said finally, jerking his head toward the east side of the meadow.“The one with the sheep that have Paet al’Caar’s ear-marks.” The boys herding sheep had to talk that way, even if it was not really proper, or no one would know whether they were talking about Paet al’Caar’s sheep or Jac al’Caar’s or sheep belonging to one of a dozen other al’Caars. “They’re just taking a rest, mind. Now, don’t you go getting them in hot water by telling anybody different.”

“Thank you, Wil,” she said, just to show that she could be polite even to a woolhead. As if she would run carrying tales! He looked startled, and she thought about kicking his shins anyway.

The large pen holding Paet al’Caar’s shorn sheep was almost to the trees on the Waterwood side of the meadow. Master al’Caar’s big black sheep-dog raised her head from where she was lying in front of the pen and watched Egwene approach for a moment before settling back down. Egwene eyed the sheep-dog warily. She did not like dogs very much, and they did not seem to care for her, either. The dog went out of her head completely, though, once she was close enough to see clearly. The split wooden railings of the pen gave little concealment, and she could see a group of boys behind the pen. She could not really make out who they were, though.

Setting her bucket down carefully, she walked along the side of the sheep-pen. Not sneaking. She just did not want to make too much noise, in case … In case noise might startle the sheep; that was it. At the corner of the pen, she peeked around the cornerpost.

Perrin was there, and Mat Cauthon, just as Wil had said, and some other boys about the same age, all with their shirts unlaced and sweaty. There was Dav Ayellin and Urn Thane, Ban Crawe and Elam Dowtry. And Rand, a skinny boy, almost as tall as Perrin, with hands and feet that were too big for his size. He could always be found with Mat or Perrin sooner or later. Rand, who everybody said she would marry one day. They were talking and laughing and punching one another on the shoulder. Why did boys do that?

Glowering, she pulled back from the cornerpost and leaned back against the railings. One of the sheep inside the pen snuffled at her back, but she ignored it. She had heard women say that about her and Rand, but she had not known that everybody said it. Drat Elisa! If Elisa had not started sighing and moaning over her hair, Egwene would never have started thinking about husbands. She expected she would marry one day-most women in the Two Rivers did-but she was not like those scatterbrains she heard going on about how they could hardly wait. Most women waited at least a few years after their hair was braided, and she … She wanted to see those lands that Jain Farstrider had written about. How would a husband feel about that? About his wife going off to see strange lands. Nobody ever left the Two Rivers, as far as she knew.